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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285877">Drawing Breath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiMorah/pseuds/Ma%C3%AF-Makt%C3%AAs'>Maï-Maktês (KikiMorah)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dissociation, F/M, Gen, Once more with PTSD training, Picking at canon and running away, Trauma, What Could Have Been, s6, s6 rewrite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:20:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,619</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiMorah/pseuds/Ma%C3%AF-Makt%C3%AAs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So.<br/>Let’s have a look at the butcher’s bill.<br/>Body? Whole and accounted for. Regrettably.<br/>Mind? Blown. Lost. Take your pick.<br/>Emotional self? M.I.A.<br/>Buffy is alive, sure. But her mind is pretty much trapped in limbo. The only thing she feels is a dread so stifling she is suffocating from it.<br/>Still, who better to help her navigate this than someone who considers breathing optional, at best?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spike/Buffy Summers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. NUCLEAR AIR BURST</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieLaFey/gifts">MaggieLaFey</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This should have been a one shot. It turned into more. Thanks to MaggieLaFey for being the best counterpoint ever to my inner Redemptionista (and outer, I’m unashamed of this love :D), and helping me balance this story. It is dedicated to her.</p><p> </p><p>Starts a bit before the ending of Flooded.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“I don't think I can do this.” Buffy sighed, looking forlornly at the bills accumulated on the desk.</p><p>Giles tutted. “Yes, you can. Your mother dealt with this sort of thing all the time.” He grabbed the offending notebook and gave it a once over before forging on placidly. “She took one crisis at a time, without the aid of any superpowers, and got through it all.”</p><p>Buffy didn’t really look convinced, still. Giles decided to lay it on thick. “And so can you,” he enjoined, smiling down at her.</p><p>“You sure?” asked Buffy in a small voice.</p><p>“I'm positive,” Giles nodded, slipping his glasses back on his nose and wincing slightly when they brushed his bruised brow. “It just seems overwhelming because you’re trying to tackle all the crises in one go.”</p><p>Buffy pouted, pointing dejectedly at a severed cord. “I think we can add another crisis. The demon cut our phone line.”</p><p>“Well,” Dawn piped up from the couch, looking mischievous, “maybe that’s a good thing! No phone, no phone bill! Also, no creditors hounding us.” She smirked and toyed with a cushion on her lap.</p><p>Giles chuckled low. “While I do appreciate your unbridled imagination, Dawn, there is no need to overdramatize the situation. The bills will be paid, one way or another, and no hounding will happen.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dawn mouthed, looking vaguely disappointed. “No chance I'd have to quit school to work assembling cheap toys in a poorly ventilated sweatshop?”</p><p>“Poorly ventilated...” Giles frowned. “What have you been reading? There will be no getting out of school for you, young lady.”</p><p>“Oh well.” Dawn threw the cushion away and got up, stretching. “I tried.”</p><p>Buffy sighed again and Giles redirected his attention to her. Ah, yes. The bills. Before Buffy’s glum gaze bore a hole in the desk, preferably. “Speaking of school, don’t you have homework to do, Dawn?”</p><p>“Maaaybe?” the young girl hedged.</p><p>“Off you go, then.”</p><p>As Dawn stomped off up the stairs, Giles started gathering the papers on the desk.</p><p>“Come, Buffy,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, feeling her body tense up immediately. He gingerly let go. “Let’s move this to the kitchen, we’ll have more room to lay everything out. We’ll clean up the living room later.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Angel hummed in annoyance as the phone line rang empty again.</p><p>He’d been trying to call Buffy or Giles all morning, but no one had picked up so far. Buffy… She was alive…<br/>
He needed to see her again. To hear her beating heart with his own two ears.</p><p> </p><p>He’d have to try again… But he had a trip planned tomorrow, and today was his only chance to see Buffy before taking off for a couple of weeks.</p><p>With a last anguished look at the phone, he grabbed his jacket and left the office.</p><p>It looked like their reunion would have to wait.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Thank heavens for Anya and her meticulous accounting, thought Giles as he sat with Buffy in her kitchen, poring over the bills. The situation was quite dire indeed. The last of the life insurance money had barely covered this month’s mortgage payment, and now the coffers were rather empty. “Buffy, do you know where your mother’s last bank statements are?”</p><p>“Sure,” she grabbed a satchel and rummaged through it. “They’re in there. I took everything to the bank yesterday.”</p><p>“To the bank?”</p><p>“Yes,” she explained, still rooting for the statements. “I went and tried to ask for a loan.” She shrugged a little. “They turned me down. Ah! Got them.” She handed the statements over, dropping the satchel back on a chair.</p><p>Well, Giles mused, this loan thing was both good and bad. Bad that she had been turned down, of course, but still, she’d had the incentive to go to the bank. On her own. This was a good sign. As he started leafing through the statements, he felt cautiously hopeful that he’d been reading too much into her apathy.</p><p>He started to make a tally, trying to make sure nothing had been omitted. As he looked up to enquire about the gallery, Giles saw that Buffy was sitting very still, gazing unblinkingly at the bills. She was lost in her own world, again. Something was seriously off. This was not Buffy trying to evade responsibilities or merely being bored, this was… almost textbook dissociation. He frowned.</p><p>Maybe if he tried to engage her more?</p><p>“Buffy.” No answer. He shook her elbow gently and she shuddered slightly, but she still did not look up at him. “Buffy, dear.”</p><p>She nodded sluggishly, and blinked twice, slowly, as if coming out of a trance. “Hm?”<strike></strike></p><p>Giles toyed with his signet ring for a bit. He should scale down his approach. Simpler concepts. She obviously had no head space for the gallery right now. He would need to come back to that later. Onward with the loan, then. “Buffy. You currently have a lot of money going out, and no money coming in.”</p><p>“But how do I make money come in?” she asked in a low tone, eyes still glued on the table. “I can’t charge for Slaying, like Anya said… Can I?” she asked after a beat, finally giving him a sideways glance.</p><p>“Anya said what? Wait, never mind.” He pinched his nose, which made the pain on his bruised brow flare up. Drat. He hated being conked over the head. “Listen, Buffy. Back to the money issue. That was a very good idea that you had, with the loan. I suppose the bank refused you because you seemed too much of a liability?”</p><p>“Yep,” Buffy breathed out.</p><p>“But what if you had a guarantee? I could vouch for you. Or maybe organize something with the Council.”</p><p>“You think it could work?” She was back to avoiding his gaze. This was not like her. He was not used to seeing her so skittish. This refusal to meet people’s eyes could be another sign of disengagement. The warning bells started chiming louder in his head. Shaking himself, he made an effort to go back to the conversation. “I don’t see why not. The Council has quite some clout.”</p><p>And really, if push came to shove, he could lend her money directly. God knew he’d willingly give her any money she needed. Still, something kept him from offering. If she was indeed dissociating, he needed to do everything he could to have her feel more invested, not… let her distance herself even more from reality. “So, let’s make a total of what you owe, and see how much of a loan you’d need.”</p><p>“I did that yesterday,” interjected Buffy, momentarily lightening up.</p><p>Giles nodded encouragingly. “Very good, my dear.”</p><p>She brought a notepad out of her bag. “So, the full re-pipe is ‘only’ around ten thousand, because Xander said his friend was giving us a big discount. And the roof shingling is another ten thousand, if I take the cheap option. The mortgage is $1900 a month. I need another $600 for the accumulated bills. Oh, and I guess I need to think about the phone line too, now. So, I need… twenty-three thousand. Ish?”</p><p>“Yes,” Giles nodded, “but let’s rather aim for thirty. That way you’ll have some leeway for the upcoming months‘ mortgage, and that’ll give you some time to find your footing before you have to start repaying it.” He did a quick calculation in his head with the exchange rate from dollars to pounds. He was fairly certain the Council would be able to afford that kind of loan. This was mere pocket change to them.</p><p>“I will call the Council later tonight and try to set something up, either with them directly or with a bank.”</p><p>Buffy had that faraway look in her eyes again. The loan talk had barely managed to anchor her for a couple of minutes. She would be here with him for a few moments and then zone out, almost like clockwork. As if being present in the moment exhausted her, and she had to retreat into herself to recuperate. Giles stared at her, wondering if it was a recent development, or if she had been doing that yesterday as well. He had not picked up on it before, so consumed was he by the joy of seeing her again, but now it was clear as day. God, but he wished he had with him all the PTSD books he’d bought and read after Jenny, instead of having them safely stashed in Bath.</p><p>He carefully laid a hand on her shoulder. This time, she did not tense up or shudder, her muscles stayed slack under his hands. He wasn’t exactly sure this was progress.</p><p>“Buffy, remember,” he tried a last time. “One crisis at a time.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Spike flicked at his lighter. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. The sounds bounded harshly off the stone walls, almost deafening in the silence. It was a bit maddening, sure, but it grounded him.</p><p>Anyway, it was either that or listen to the slow drip coming from beneath his crypt. There was a leak, somewhere. He needed to fix it.</p><p>He didn’t feel like fixing anything. He dreamt of chaos and mayhem. Of violence so sweet, it turned to jouissance.</p><p>It was true, what he’d told Buffy yesterday. He was not much for crowds these days. Anger and fury boiled under his skin at the slightest provocation. He was perpetually spoiling for a fight. Against himself. Against the world.</p><p>Against those stupid children.</p><p>Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her blank face, quietly announcing that she had been dragged out of heaven by her little chums. But perish the thought that they should know about it and possibly feel bad, nooo. She wanted to protect<em> them, </em>still.</p><p>He’d sat there, utterly gutted, gaping at her as she’d gone on in that haunted, jaded voice of hers. She hadn’t even been talking to <em>him.</em> She’d just been… Saying words out loud. Vaguely in his vicinity.</p><p>Fuck, but the girl was demolished. Even for someone like him, with a taste for decimation, this was too much. This was like looking at the Atomic Bomb Dome at Hiroshima. The walls were still there, but everything else had been torched. And he could only watch her from the sidelines, not knowing what to do. Where to start.</p><p>Because if she was the hypocenter, what did that make him? The shadow etched on the stone, probably. He snorted, flicking his lighter open. Closed. Open again.</p><p>He was no stranger to taking care of stricken women, but this whole situation just threw him. He didn’t know quite what to do with a Slayer that had had the wind knocked out of her sails. She was so far removed from herself he almost didn’t recognize her. The feeling was mutual, apparently.  Lately, she acted as if she’d almost forgotten who he was. Or, more likely, who she was talking to when she addressed him.</p><p>Like yesterday, when they’d chatted about her bills, sitting on the porch. She seemed happy enough to have a good chinwag with him about it, telling him of her little adventures at the bank and all, but when he’d offered to help her with the bills, she’d suddenly clammed up and gotten up and away from him, draping herself in wounded virtue.</p><p>And the look she’d given him, then. God.</p><p>For a second, she’d been back on the saddle, sitting pretty on her high horse and looking down her nose at him. Like she used to, before Glory. Then the Watcher called her, and she’d slunk back inside without a backward glance.</p><p>God, the insufferable bitch. Sometimes, he hated her almost as much as he loved her. She’d always had the knack for making his hackles rise. For making him want to hurt her, and not in a fun way. But it had been alright before, because she had been able to stand her ground. And give as good as she got. Now, it seemed she was always one sentence away from a full nervous breakdown. He felt like he was walking on eggshells around her and he was <em>so</em> not used to that. He needed to pull back his metaphorical punches and get himself a temper if he didn’t want to say something he might bitterly regret.</p><p>Well. He closed his lighter with a last snick and got up.</p><p>Enough mulling. Time for a wank, and then he’d head out for a fine spot of violence. That might help a smidge with the temper-getting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Breathing fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry, I got side-tracked writing 30K of porn. I'm back to this baby, now.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">Friday, 19<sup>th</sup> of October 2001 (evening)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>Patrol had its own Murphy’s law. Once things started to go south? They didn’t stop.</p>
<p>The evening had started smoothly enough. Spike had joined Buffy for her Rosedale patrol and things had been quiet. Spike had yammered, Buffy had barely listened, fledges were dusted, good times.</p>
<p>But then, not one but two Carnyss demons had shown up. The fight—well, more of a brawl to be honest; as soon as Spike got involved in <em>anything</em>, order went out of the window— had barely started when everything went to hell in a handbasket.</p>
<p>One kick in her side she was unable to dodge in time and Buffy was airborne, flying at terminal velocity toward the other Carnyss’s extended fist.</p>
<p>With her luck, it was going to catch her right in the diaphragm. Ugh. These hurt like a mother.</p>
<p>No time to roll into a ball, not even to bring her knees up. Nothing to do but clamp her teeth down, suck in one last breath, tense her stomach muscles and take it like a champ.</p>
<p>Which she did.</p>
<p>But she still went down like a ton of bricks when the demon’s fist poleaxed her. Buffy <em>hated</em> having the breath knocked out of her.</p>
<p>She dropped to the ground, bruising her side. Limbs shaking, she got on her hands and knees, wheezing air out like a deflated balloon. Out, out, out it went, she was unable to suck anything in.</p>
<p><em>Don't panic. It's only going to last a few seconds. </em>She tried to sit up, working her mouth open and closed, trying to will her lungs back into working order.<em> You've got oxygen in your bloodstream. Don’t panic, Buffy. You can last forty seconds on that, easy. More. You’re the Slayer. </em> </p>
<p>She briefly looked up to see if the Carnyss was coming after her, but no, it looked like it’d joined its friend to tag-team Spike.</p>
<p><em>Don't panic</em>.</p>
<p>"Slayer?"</p>
<p>Speaking of Spike, he was clueing in that something was wrong.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don't panic. Spike can take care of the Carnysses. They’re low-grade trouble, bunch of brainless muscles. You were just caught off guard. Focus on your breathing.</em>
</p>
<p>She tried to close her eyes and concentrate on her heartbeat like Giles had taught her.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don't panic. The air will come in any moment now.</em>
</p>
<p>But her heart was beating too fast, almost erratic, doing nothing to calm her down. Opening her eyes again, she glanced around, anxiety mounting. Still no air.</p>
<p>"Buffy!"</p>
<p>The rush of blood in her ears drowned out the meaty sounds of Spike whaling onto the two Carnysses at the same time.</p>
<p>Her field of vision was narrowing, getting darker by the second. Her mouth was wide open, desperately trying to suck in air, <em>don't panic, don't panic</em>, but nothing was happening and she was lost in the dark,<em> don't panic, </em>dark like her coffin with no air, <em>don’t panic,</em> dark as the puddle the Master drowned her in,<em> panic</em>.</p>
<p>Suddenly Spike was there, shaking her by the shoulders and yelling something, but she couldn't understand, there was no room for words. Only the panic thrived, flowering in her chest and clawing at her throat. Tears and snot were spilling out easily enough, but no air went in. Her lungs were empty and she was going to <em>die</em> again (once with the Master), again (once with Glory), again (once on her hands and knees). Third time’s the charm.</p>
<p>Charm, <em>charm</em>, rhymes with <em>harm</em>. Funny, not funny.</p>
<p>Buffy didn’t want to die. Not like that. <em>Just one last breath, please</em>. She dug her fingers in the ground, sight dimming.</p>
<p>Spike moved behind her, roughly snaking his arms around her torso and digging his fingers deep, deep in her stomach, under her ribs.</p>
<p>The pain blinded Buffy, bowling her mind over. Nothing made sense. Was Spike trying to finish her? Going for the kill? After all this time, did he still want to gloat about his third Slayer?</p>
<p>She was so lost in pain and stupor that the first hissing breath went almost unnoticed. Almost.</p>
<p>But soon it was the only thing she could focus on. Blinding pain seized her midriff when she tried to expand her lungs too quickly.</p>
<p>Spike dug his fingers deeper in her sternum and she felt his cool lips move against her ear.</p>
<p>"Smaller breaths, love. Start small. I got you."</p>
<p>Buffy lay whimpering, sprawled on Spike’s lap, throat shuddering with every sweet, sweet gulp of air, the tide of panic slowly receding from the shores of her mind.</p>
<p>Spike’s fingers eased their grip on the underside of her ribs, but he stayed there for a second, bone-white fingers splayed over her dark velvet top. Then he let her go.</p>
<p>She rolled to her side and sucked in the night air, staring at a couple of lonely stars peeking out of the dull sky. When she finally swiveled her head, Spike was sitting beside her, looking down at her with a quirked eyebrow, his coattails draped around him like a dark train.</p>
<p>“What did you do?” Buffy managed to croak when her heartbeat was under control.</p>
<p>“Forced your diaphragm to unclench, so you could breathe again faster.” Spike shrugged. “You would have been fine anyway, but methinks you were starting to get lost in the panic.”</p>
<p>Huh. “How…?” she ventured.</p>
<p>“Just gotta dig your fingers deep into it, ya know?” He raised his hands forming claws. “Under the ribs. Hurts like a bitch, though. Gonna have bruises, love,” he said, tilting his head toward her midsection. “Even with Slayer metabolism.”</p>
<p>Buffy sat up, brushing a stray leaf out of her hair. “No, I mean... How did <em>you</em> know what to do?” she asked as Spike rooted in his pockets for what turned out to be a crumpled cigarette pack and his lighter. “What do vampires even need a diaphragm for?”</p>
<p>“Well, to talk, to begin with,” he mouthed around a slightly crooked cig. He lit it and waved it in the air in front of her, the glowing end swarming her like a hellish firefly. She batted his hand away. “Or to smoke,” he added, cracking a smile at her disgusted moue.</p>
<p>“Spike,” she ground through her teeth, already annoyed with his antics.</p>
<p>His wry smile turned wistful.</p>
<p>“Dru used to work herself into such snits, you know.” He paused to knock a bit of ash off his cigarette. “She would literally yell or beat herself up until she got stuck like you just were. But her being a vampire, I don’t know, it took her forever to get back to normal. Hours she would be, unable to suck in a breath to talk.”</p>
<p>Buffy twisted her jacket around herself, wishing she had gone with a longer coat. The ground was cold. She just couldn’t feel warm these days.</p>
<p>“Darla and Angelus thought it was funny, to see her with her mouth open like a fish. Tossers.” A nervous tic wracked his shoulders, but he shook his head, moving on. “Let me tell you, the first time it happened in front of me I nearly lost my goddam mind.”</p>
<p>Yeah, Buffy could see that happening. Even in full peacock mode, Spike had always been ready to drop everything for Drusilla.</p>
<p>“So I tried to get her unstuck. I hadn’t the faintest as to what was happening, of course. Didn’t know what a diaphragm was, even. But I had to do something.”</p>
<p>He rested his hand on the top of his bent knee, cig and fingers dangling.</p>
<p>“For a while, I tried to blow air in her lungs. To kickstart the old breathing bits again. But Dru would just get hoppin’ mad. She made these wheezing noises, like an angry mouse.” Spike smiled, apparently distracted by the memory. “Gotta admit, that was kinda cute. But it didn’t help one lick, until one day I tried to shake her around a little bit and it seemed to work. That’s when I understood that there was something I could do. Something I could reach, inside her, and let loose.”</p>
<p>He blew the smoke skyward, contemplating the white plumes as they rose. Huh. Watching him smoke was kinda relaxing, Buffy reflected. As long as he didn’t blow the smoke in her face, anyway.</p>
<p>“Not gonna lie,” Spike went on, “it was hit and miss at first. Well, all hits and all misses. Poor love … beat her black and blue a couple of times before figuring out how to get it on the first try.”</p>
<p>He stubbed his cigarette butt on the ground, small sparks dying softly on the chalky earth.</p>
<p>“Think that only encouraged her to do it more often, though.” Spike smiled dotingly. “Always loved her little pains, did my Dru.”</p>
<p>“Huh.” Buffy got up and brushed the dirt off her pants. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>“Well, yeah.” He got up swiftly, looking peeved. “Where the hell have you been for the past three years, Slayer?”</p>
<p><em>Intermittently dead</em>, thought Buffy as she watched the vampire flounce around moodily, his coattails flapping. His coat had made her think of a train earlier, and it was kinda fitting, really. He’d always been such a drama queen</p>
<p>Spike was glaring at her, apparently expecting a real answer.</p>
<p>Buffy wasn’t good with answers.</p>
<p>“Dunno,” she shrugged, lost. “I have a hard time understanding what kind of love it could be, without a soul.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes.” Spike glowered. “According to the Watchers’ postulate, we’re all beasts and beasts shan’t love.” He tapped his cigarette pack, jostling another one out. “Not to go all Valladolid debate on their arses but okay. Say we’re beasts.”</p>
<p>Between his lips went the small stick, his hand arcing up, trailing light behind his fingers before he snuffed the flame out by snapping the lighter closed. It was all over in less than a couple of seconds, mesmerizing like a mini fire-juggling act. The only light now was the incandescent tip, bobbing as Spike spoke.</p>
<p>Uh-oh. She was supposed to listen. That was another shitty side-effect from her resurrection, her mind kept flitting in and out. Buffy tried to anchor herself to Spike’s voice just as he turned toward her.</p>
<p>“Do you think animals have souls?” he asked her expectantly but charged on without waiting for an answer. “According to most of the theologian wank, they don’t. Yet animals can love. Right?”</p>
<p>Buffy hoped this was another of his self-answering questions because she had no damn clue. Her mom had never been big on pets; even a hamster had been out of question. Did hamsters have souls?</p>
<p>Spike was still speaking.</p>
<p>“—and ours is the fiercest love. You know why? Because it’s not tinged by doubt. Or scruples. We beasts, we just love blindly—”</p>
<p>He didn’t have a bad voice, really. Didn’t it use to be more grating? It was lulling, in a way, the cadence of it. What was the difference between cadence and prosody again? Maybe she could ask Spike, when he’d finish talking. He always seemed to know weird stuff.</p>
<p>“—and the blood lust.” Spike shrugged and threw the cigarette butt away.</p>
<p>Buffy followed the smoldering arc in the night. Wait. His cig was already over? Drat, she must have zoned out again. What had they been talking about again?</p>
<p>“Do you still love her?” she asked, in a valiant effort to make the conversation less one-sided. Not that Spike couldn’t chat enough for the both of them. Man, was he a motormouth.</p>
<p>Spike shot her a baffled look. “Who? Dru?” he said, and quickly followed it with aggravation when she nodded. “Again, where were you this past year?”</p>
<p>“On a sabbatical in Honolulu,” she deadpanned.</p>
<p>His affronted look dissolved and he smiled, stepping closer. He tugged at a lock of her hair playfully.</p>
<p>Mood whiplash, thy name is Spike.</p>
<p>“Nah,” he said, stepping away. “The love is gone. And so is the anger. And the hurt also, I think. There’s only the fondness left, I hope she’s happy somewhere. She’s strong, my girl. She can take care of herself, now.”</p>
<p>He was smiling sappily again as if Dru ‘taking care of herself’ didn’t mean crazy mayhem and murder. Ugh, Spike and his stupid vampire kookiness.</p>
<p>Still … could she say the same? Could she look back at her past relationships with a fond smile and wish them the best? Could she do it with Angel? With Riley?</p>
<p>Well, no, not right now. She was all out of feelings and care to give, even to herself.</p>
<p>“How are the finances doing?” Spike chimed in, dragging her out of her emotional no man’s land.</p>
<p>“Oh, huh…” She toyed with the hem of her jacket sleeves. “Giles is thinking about asking the Council for a loan. So I wouldn’t need any guarantor.”</p>
<p>Spike looked reluctantly impressed. “Not a bad idea,” he approved. “That old crock can help when he puts his mind to it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, it won’t magic everything away, but it’ll give me some time to sort stuff out.”</p>
<p>"How much are you going to go for the loan? Are we talking telephone numbers?"</p>
<p>Buffy stared at him, brows furrowed. Why couldn’t he speak like a normal person?</p>
<p>“’T means stupidly large amounts, love.”</p>
<p>Oh. She raised one shoulder jerkily. “Around thirty grand.”</p>
<p>Spike gave a low whistle.</p>
<p>They walked in companionable silence for another cemetery row before Buffy called it a night for Rosedale.</p>
<p>As they were heading to the path leading to the main exit, Spike caught her gaze. “You mind if I don’t tag along to Restfield tonight, love?”</p>
<p>Buffy shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why would I mind?”</p>
<p>He stopped to look at her, forcing her to grind to a stop too.</p>
<p>“Because you had a panic attack ten minutes ago and I’m not too keen on leaving you if you’re still a bit wobbly?”</p>
<p>“I’m totally un-wobbly.” She raised a hand at eye-level, holding it flat. “See? Steady as a rock.” <em>And unfeeling as one, too.</em></p>
<p>Spike tilted his head, his infuriating smirk back in place. “Atta girl.”</p>
<p>Then he took off, duster flaring around him like the great stupid bat he was. She jogged after him. Why did he always have to <em>stalk</em> so damn much? He had surprisingly long legs, for a not-that-tall guy. Even with Riley, it had been easier to keep up.</p>
<p>“Poker night?” she inquired, trying not to sound too nosy.</p>
<p>“Nah, I gotta swing by my girl.”</p>
<p>Buffy stopped and stared owlishly at the back of his head, but Spike didn’t seem to notice. He went on, “I don’t ride her enough, she’s gotten all stroppy.”</p>
<p>Buffy stood there, in shock. Even for Spike, this was way too much info. Also, why did her brain pick <em>now</em> to be hyper-focused?</p>
<p>Spike went on, oblivious. “Guess I’ll have to lube her up good and proper tonight.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Hello, Disgust. Nice to have you back in the Buffy emotional range!</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh ew, Spike! I don’t need to know about that!”</p>
<p>Spike swiveled around slowly, staring at her with a dumbfounded frown. “What’s so offending about car mechanics?”</p>
<p><em>Oooh</em>.</p>
<p>“Oh. Your car.” Yeah, that made sense. If you took the whole sentence thing. And the Spike-being-weirdly-attached-to-his-car thing. But Buffy’s brain had kinda lost the plot after ‘my girl’. Stupid brain.</p>
<p>“Of course I’m talking about my bloody car, what did you—" Spike stopped short and waggled his eyebrows, suddenly leering. “Why, Slayer … feeling the need to be lubed up as well?”</p>
<p>“Ugh!” She strode forward and punched him in the side, a mean right hook. He didn’t stop laughing, the jackass. Buffy needed to steer the conversation away from this fiasco. “You still have that monstrosity of a car?”</p>
<p>“Hey! Not a word against my baby, okay?”</p>
<p>Buffy raised her hands placatingly. “What’s wrong with… her?”</p>
<p>Spike ran a hand through his hair, an amorous smile plastered on his face. “I’ve been neglecting her lately. Poor love, she’s stuck in a garage all day. I should drive her more.”</p>
<p>Buffy didn’t know why she and the Scoobies had ever worried about Spike’s infatuation with her. The vampire obviously behaved like that with everything in his gravitational field. He was as passionate toward his car as he was toward her, if not more.</p>
<p>“So yeah, anyway, I got her neatly tucked away somewhere close.  You’ll be OK on your own?”</p>
<p>Buffy couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Yes, Spike. I’m a grown Slayer.”</p>
<p>“Catch you tomorrow, then!”</p>
<p>She watched him silently melt into the shadows, the blazing end of a newly lit cigarette the only testament of his retreating presence.</p>
<p>When even that disappeared, she let go of the breath she had been holding.</p>
<p>Embarrassing misunderstanding aside, she’d felt…<em>something</em>, at the thought of Spike having a girlfriend. Not jealousy, no. God, never. Hah. Please. <em>Please.</em></p>
<p>But some weird surge of… possessiveness. Not that she considered him hers in any way, but…</p>
<p>Well, maybe a bit, in a way? Not in a relationship sense, but in a more overarching meaning. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Spike being in love with her had become one of her world’s weird constants. One of the things that had stayed the same <em>Before</em> and <em>After</em>. And she needed her constants. Especially now, when everything seemed to be sliding away, slipping through her fingers.</p>
<p>But still, the sun rose in the East, set in the West, Spike was here, and Spike was obsessed with her. He was hers. In a way. Not that she would have any complaint if he decided to get a girlfriend. Please. <em>Please.</em>  Well, sure, it would be weird. And… Not that she was attached to him! No. Not in any way. But yeah, the thought of him being interested in someone else? That was weird. It was… Destabilizing. Yes.</p>
<p>And right now, she didn’t need any more destabilizing things. Yes.</p>
<p>That was it.</p>
<p>Buffy sighed.</p>
<p>She wasn’t stupid. She realized what she was doing.</p>
<p>Stalling. Desperately trying to stay focused on Spike thoughts. Because as soon as he stopped running interference in her brain, she knew what awaited her.</p>
<p>Buffy had never been afraid of the dark, not really. Probably because it hadn’t been much of a thing in LA’s brightly lit streets to begin with. At least not in her sheltered part of town. And when she’d moved to Sunnydale, she’d already been a seasoned slayer. By then, the dark had been afraid of <em>her.</em></p>
<p>How ironic was it now that she was afraid of the darkness of her own mind?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>_.~"~._</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Spike balanced his smoldering cig on the edge of the fender, careful no falling ash would threaten his baby’s paint.</p>
<p>He’d taken off his duster and his red shirt to avoid the grease stains. His belt too, to stave off damaging the paint with the buckle. He’d unscrewed the covers of the air cleaners—once golden, now gunky like the rest of the engine—and lifted them out. He’d been ready to get to work.</p>
<p>That had been twenty minutes and two cigs ago.</p>
<p>Spike stared down at the engine, eyes unseeing.</p>
<p>So. Buffy was spending time with him. Seeking out his company.</p>
<p>It could be two things, really. Either she enjoyed interacting with him as a… well. Person? Entity? Whichever bag she decided to lump him into, these days. Or…</p>
<p>Or she was drawn to the dark.</p>
<p>The most logical answer, slayer-wise, was the second, which didn’t bode well. She was isolating herself from her little friends. Add to that the usual slayer death wish, a romp in Heaven, Buffy’s longstanding loathing of him, her desperate need to belong…</p>
<p>Shake well and you get Slayer slipping to the dark side, a rotten cocktail with a slice of Doom and a little umbrella of Gloom.</p>
<p>Spike pulled a face. That wasn’t a nice picture.</p>
<p>But the other possibility was a Pandora’s box he didn’t dare open. Not yet, anyway.</p>
<p>Buffy Summers was not the hill he’d meant to die on.</p>
<p>Well, maybe in a slayer-versus-vampire way, sure. He’d sought her out often enough. But not like this. Not this slow searing that was cremating his heart. This was like consumption, when tuberculosis was still named like that because it slowly ate at you. Or maybe like in French, where “<em>consumption”</em> edged more on the semantic field of fire, a sickness that gradually but relentlessly burned you away.</p>
<p>This was what was happening with his heart. Slow immolation.</p>
<p>Speaking of consuming things, his smoke on the fender had burned down completely while he’d been lost in his head. Only the filter remained, precariously propped over the edge.</p>
<p>Spike shook his head. Yeah, Buffy Summers would probably be the death of him. But who’s the murderer when a man kills himself?</p>
<p>Enough with this nonsense. His best girl needed a good seeing to.</p>
<p>Spike flicked the cigarette butt away and grabbed a screwdriver to remove the air filter housings to get to the carburetors, surely gummed up to the gills from sitting so long. Eyeing the grotty crankcase vent, he frowned. Yeah, better shuck his T-shirt as well. He was not in the mood for laundry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>_.~"~._</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Andrew moodily kicked another stone. He knew he shouldn’t be out in the middle of the night in deserted parts of Sunnydale, but frick it. He had his crosses and his holy water flask. And he was too bummed out to stay at the Lair.</p>
<p>Why did no one ever listen to him?</p>
<p>Story of his life, really. First, there had been the constant shadow of Tucker. Family, friends, teachers… everybody looked at him with pitying gazes. <em>Oh Andrew? Sure, he’s doing his best, but… well … </em></p>
<p>But now he’d found a group where Tucker was not a constant benchmark, and people still didn’t listen to his ideas. Even when he made neat little presentations, with construction paper and popsicle sticks. Like his KITT one, earlier today.</p>
<p>Andrew kicked the ground again. How could Jonathan and Andrew say that Knight Rider was lame? Pshaw. They had <em>no</em> taste.</p>
<p>The three of them had a <em>mission</em>. They needed to take over Sunnydale. An intelligent car could totally help. But no. Andrew’s grandest idea hadn’t even made it to the board. How was the gorilla thing any better?</p>
<p>Andrew had tried to tell them how easy it would be. He’d already spotted a big black car in a deserted garage, and if they used the bot’s code, they could totally turn it into KITT2 in less than a week.</p>
<p>But Warren had just sneered. <em>Yeah? And who’s going to be Michael Knight? You?</em> Not knowing how to answer, Andrew had just stood there, silent and meek as usual.</p>
<p>Now he daydreamed of talking back, pointing out that Warren’s argument had been fallacious —‘fallacious,’ he totally needed to remember that one for next time—because KITT always did most of the work, anyway. So sure, a dark, sexy leather-clad hero would be more dashing, but they didn’t need a broad-shouldered Michael Knight if they had a KITT.</p>
<p>Alas, Andrew was blessed with afterwit— sometimes forewit as well— but he always faltered when he was on the spot. So he’d remained tongue-tied while Warren and Jonathan snickered like mean girls.</p>
<p>Anyway, after that Warren had shut him down for good, saying that his uncle’s van was enough.</p>
<p>So here was Andrew, walking one last time to the garage where he’d seen the car. To lay his dreams of glory to rest. To bid adieu to the greatness that could have been.</p>
<p>As he turned the corner, however, all his <em>fare-thee-well, Dream Car! </em>plans fizzled. The great black sedan was inundated in light and a man was standing to its side, peering under the hood.</p>
<p>Andrew scrambled haplessly, jumping back in the shadows. Shoot, the car hadn’t been abandoned then. Well, that put a final nail in the coffin of his grand scheme. Even the universe was against it, apparently.</p>
<p>In the garage, the man suddenly took his T-shirt off in a fluid movement and bent over the fender to reach something under the hood.</p>
<p>Andrew gulped. He’d never heard of car mechanics working topless in the middle of the night in October, but Sunnydale was home to much stranger things. Also, the man was <em>fit</em>, which allowed him to be shirtless, according to the unspoken Dude Code.</p>
<p>He was about to step totally stealthily away when the man in the garage stood up a bit, reaching for a wrench, and dipped back beneath the hood. Andrew watched, enraptured, as corded shoulder muscles—broad shoulders! Like Michael Knight—heaved and rolled.</p>
<p>Intrigued, Andrew squinted, but he still couldn’t see more than the stranger’s back. The man was bent over the car, tinkering with the engine. Andrew could only make out a pair of tight, dark jeans on a… err… tighter behind. That, and what totally looked like a leather coat, folded on a nearby chair.</p>
<p>Heart beating wildly, Andrew stepped away, his brilliant mind racing with a slightly modified scheme. Sure, he needed to regroup, but this was clearly fate telling him he’d been on the right track. No need to look for a Michael Knight, his KITT2 already had a driver. Who wore tight jeans and owned a leather jacket. Fate.</p>
<p>Also, Andrew had already rounded up everything he needed to set up a car AI, so he could start as early as tomorrow. Sure, coding was Warren’s forte, but Andrew wasn’t half bad at building from existing stuff.</p>
<p>As he ran into the night, Andrew felt his resolve crystalize.</p>
<p>Screw the guys. He’d work on his KITT2 project on the side, without telling anybody. Time to stop relying on the approval of others and forge his own path to greatness.</p>
<p>And talking cars.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>_.~"~._</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Buffy disrobed in her bedroom, she tried to process her feelings. She should feel good. Relieved, at least.</p>
<p>Giles had just told her that the Council had agreed to the loan. No interest rate. Wooo. And the first repayment wouldn’t be until December. Yippee.</p>
<p>But Buffy just felt murky. Detached. Like it all was happening to someone else.</p>
<p>Or like it all was a slightly contrived TV show. The heroes were in terrible danger, but, gaspy-gasp! A sudden plot device managed to give them some unexpected respite. Tune in next week for the rest of the adventures of the Debt Slayer. Will the heroes be able to prevent the Taxpocalypse and the attack of the Council Loan Sharks? Who knew?</p>
<p>Who cared?</p>
<p>Not Buffy.</p>
<p>She just felt like switching channels, bored out of her ears, until white noise drowned her.</p>
<p>As she took her shirt off, something caught her attention in the mirror. She looked at the dark imprint of Spike’s fingers on her abdomen. One, two, three… Yep. She could see where <em>all</em> his fingers had been. Buffy, the wonder Dalmatian.</p>
<p>She sighed as she grabbed her pajamas. Spike had been right about leaving a mark. No wonder, really. It had hurt like—</p>
<p>Buffy inhaled sharply, clutching her PJs to her chest.</p>
<p>
  <em>Hurt.</em>
</p>
<p>Spike had hurt her.</p>
<p>And the chip had not fired.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>_.~"~._</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*eyes Andrew.<br/>Yeah, uh… Sorry. <br/>He insisted.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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